


Urocyon

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Comeplay, Dominance, Gags, Handcuffs, M/M, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4510110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas finds Thranduil’s depraved collection of fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urocyon

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Legolas finds a journal that Thranduil keeps and is shocked (and kinda aroused) to find it full of filthy, depraved fantasies about Legolas” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26197250#t26197250).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Legolas heads back to his quarters with the thin notebook tucked carefully inside his tunic. He knows exactly whose it is; he recognizes his father’s scrawl, the front painted with an elaborate tree and the inside full of his fluid words. It was left in their private dining hall, on the floor and clearly by accident, and at first, Legolas thought it best to retrieve and return it before a servant saw fit to invade their king’s privacy.

But then Legolas had gone to return it, only to find his father yet again chastising Tauriel for an imaginary crime. And so Legolas keeps it, knowing the pettiness of his resolve and not quite caring enough to deviate from it. Besides, he justifies to himself, he could use some insight into his father’s thoughts. Perhaps something lies in this book that will better explain the strain that always lies between them.

Inside his quarters, Legolas settles onto his bed, leaning back against the headboard. Under the fading evening light through his high wrought windows and the flickering candles of his nightstand, he flips to the first page. The first passage isn’t dated, but clearly set aside as a division of entries. It details, in Thranduil’s regal voice, of the need for a second journal. The first, or so this second says:

_has become so derailed by this sort of dalliance that it seems foolish not to set such idle entertainment aside._

Legolas wonders what sort of dalliance Thranduil means for about half a second, before the next paragraph makes it clear: nothing less than Thranduil’s irritation with his son’s defiance. Legolas can feel his nose wrinkling. He isn’t quite sure how he feels about that—annoyed, perhaps, that his father would think _him_ the difficult one, and yet he can hardly claim innocence, reading his father’s private journal as he is. The next paragraph sets his mind on other things.

_Legolas has developed quite the tongue. Perhaps I have been too lenient with my hold on him, and he has picked up cruder habits from lesser elves. Or perhaps he is simply vying for my attention, and he has a secret wish that I will someday snap and gag him as he so deserves._

Legolas’ eyebrow rises at the word ‘gag,’ but it only gets worse. 

_Ideally, I would like to have something special made. He is a brat, but he is my brat, and I would have him bound in the finest silk. Yet I fear he may one day push me so that I will not be willing to wait, and I will have to use the nearest amenity, forced to use my own cloak or have our guards bring rope from the dungeon. Of course, there are chains there that may have far better use._

Both brows knitting together, Legolas leans closer to the page. He knows his father to be harsh, but not so with _him_ , and this is beyond comprehension. Still, the passage goes on to insist:

_If I am to gag him, I would have to bind his wrists as well. He is not yet trained, and his disobedience could lead to freeing himself. I would not trade the son I have for anything in this world, and yet I would do much to teach him humility and servitude when dealing with his better. It is a pity that such beautiful, strong and delicate wrists would need to be chained with what metals I have, simply so that his pretty lips could stay stretched around their fill._

There’s a whirlwind going on in Legolas’ mind. First, that his father wouldn’t trade him—that’s news, and a lovely bit of it, yet he can’t believe his father would wish him more _subservient._ He isn’t surprised that Thranduil thinks himself better; Thranduil seems to think himself above all in their world. And then there are the words _beautiful_ and _pretty_ , which seems so strange in description of Legolas. A part of him feels as though he should stop reading now—this is clearly a darkness beyond what his father would wish revealed—and yet he can’t hold himself back. 

_Naturally, if I were to tie him so, his ankles could not go free. Some days, I imagine I would wish to fasten them to his wrists, perhaps leave him on his stomach with all his limbs at my mercy, but others I think a simple ringlet around one ankle would suffice. He would need to be chained to his cell, assuming I wished to leave him in my dungeons, so that he could not crawl to the edge and seduce my guards into betrayal. Even gagged and helpless to offer anything, the sight of his body would be of enough value to sway even my most loyal servant. Yet I would need guards at that post to see that he would not suffer in my absence. It is a conundrum I have, but so is the risk of having such a magnificent child._

Legolas’ hands might be shaking. He finds himself stopping at every paragraph, needing a moment to regain his breath. These are the most compliments he’s ever been paid by his father, and yet twisted in such odd scenarios. If it weren’t for these unusual descriptors, he’d think his father held a secret malice for him. He doesn’t understand. He reads on, half hoping to and half physically compelled. 

_Perhaps then when I returned to him, if I had been kind enough to leave his knees untouched, he would crawl to me as best he could. Perhaps he would even learn to bow, and when I freed his sweet mouth, he would beg for my forgiveness. He would be tempting, I am sure, but even to such a lovely creature, I would not give it easily._

A shiver runs down Legolas’ spine. The entry’s ended, but the tone hangs in the air, ready for another day. When he flips the page, he isn’t surprised to see it filled in, and when he does a quick flick through the book, it’s nearly half finished with tidy writing, perhaps all about leaving Legolas helpless in his dungeon. Legolas _wants_ to close the book, not just because it’s disturbing, but because he feels so traitorously interested in _more_.

He’s weaker than this father gives him credit for. He gives in, opening to the next entry. It doesn’t pick up far off where the other left. 

_Legolas still requires a lesson in humility. I have not yet decided how long I would keep him bound, if I could, but at one point or another, I would certainly bring him as such to my throne. I cannot spare much time away from it, even for my precious leaf, so it would only make sense to bring him with me. I would perch him on my knee, or perhaps lay him across it, so that all our kingdom could see his taming._

His _taming_. Thranduil writes of him as though he’s an animal, yet a strangely beloved one, and Legolas can’t decide if he finds that irksome or appealing. None of this is right, though at least he doesn’t feel guilty for reading it without permission anymore—clearly, neither of them is without sin, and Thranduil’s seems greater. While Legolas has had dreams and fantasies of his king—he’s overheard enough over the years to know that nearly everyone in the Greenwood has—none have been like this. His wrists seem to tingle at the thought of his father binding them, and even while he tells himself he won’t, he reads on.

_Perhaps I would bind him while he was bare, but it is more likely that I would need to slice his clothes away. I would need something finer than my sword for fear of his own disobedience causing him to be cut, perhaps a small dagger or knife. He would learn, after a time, not to squirm and to trust me, but until then, I would need the utmost care. He is too beautiful a thing to mar, though I would love him if he were scarred deeper than my wounds of old. I would never wish to be the one to hurt him, and I hope he would know that as I left him across my lap, bare like the day he first came to me._

This time, Legolas stops longer, breathing hard. _Love_ it isn’t a word he hears often, if ever, and it’s such a strange way to come about, even in print. He chooses to dwell only on that: that his father _loves_ him, both with his apparent beauty and without. Only belatedly does his mind fill in the rest, the imagery in his own head of his nakedness bent over his father’s knee. Unfortunately, the text doesn’t dwell on that tenderness. It moves swiftly on to lewdly muse:

_Perhaps, if I had the time to properly prepare his opening, I would attach a slicked staff to the chains binding his wrists and insert it into his body. It is a shame I have yet to see his rear properly since his manhood so many years ago, and yet, perhaps it is best for the both of us. I do not know what I would do if presented with such an offering. In this particularly situation, I should like to see it stretched open, kept full and by his own hand, to teach his wrists to be still lest he drive himself to madness. I would not allow him to hump my lap like some animal. But I would, I think, slap his pert cheeks when I so felt the need, and he would learn to be quiet. He has grown strong; I am sure he could take many strokes across his backside before his want moved him to tears and quiet pleading, again, for my mercy._

Legolas is _shocked_. Perhaps he shouldn’t be, given the rest, but his father’s never struck him. The thought of it, especially in such a sensitive place, makes his throat run dry. His thoughts are reeling all the faster, though his pauses are becoming shorter.

_It seems harsh, but I would soothe him after, draw him into my lap and allow him to rest his head upon my shoulder. I would thread my fingers through his hair and stroke his warm thighs. I would allow him to come undone in my arms as I have not before, and when he trembled and begged to be allowed into his dear father’s bed, I would not be so cruel as to deny him._

The entry ends. The end is sweeter than he expected, the content jarring. His heart is beating fast. His skin is hot all over, his tights strained beneath the lip of his tunic, but somehow, he keeps reading. The next entry is entirely different, yet no less depraved. 

_I will take him riding, some day, I think. I do not mean to accompany me, but to sit in my lap. He does not have enough respect for my prized elk, but perhaps he would if he were skewered upon me and felt every thrust of the great creature’s gate inside himself. I imagine he would need much self-control to contain his cries, especially if I took her to gallop. Or perhaps my precious leaf would need more despoiling, and he would have to be taken to the forest floor and fucked hard into the dirt._

The sudden crude word throws Legolas out, only to be sucked in a moment later, the words now rushing into him faster and faster.

_I would pin him down amongst the leaves and pound into him stronger than any other elf could give him, and he would clench around me and clutch at my shoulders, his hair strewn about him and his lips open for my tongue. I would fill his body anywhere I could, both making love and claiming him fiercer than any beast. He would not be able to move for days afterwards without thinking of me, and if he dared to speak ill of me on the ride over, I would turn him to rub his pale body into the brown earth. If he wishes to be so foul to his father, perhaps he deserves that dirt. Every good stallion must be ridden hard to break them, and my son is no exception. I would thrust into his wanting body until he trembled and cried for me, and perhaps, if he was a good boy that day, I would allow him his release as I filled him with my own._

Legolas _breaks_. He _is_ trembling, hot but only growing warmer, and he has to cover his mouth with one hand as the other holds the journal open, his mind reeling with thoughts of what his father would feel like _inside_ him. He’s only sorry that the passage ends too soon, with a short paragraph of aftermath.

 _When he returned to my elk, he would appreciate her more, slumping along her downy neck as I carried him home. He would need much sleep after my use of him, and he would not wish to ride without me again. It is a wonder he does now. But then, he does not know my pride for him, and what I would reward him with if he looked at me in the right way._

Under normal circumstances, Legolas’ heart would swell at the mere thought of his father being _proud_ of him. At the moment, he’s too far-gone. He quickly flips to the next entry, this one evidently started over Legolas’ “poor” eating habits.

_Though he is strong and hardy, I fear my son does not eat enough. It is my own doing, allowing him to break bread with his friends instead of only under my watchful eye, but I think some time I should draw him back to the basics. Perhaps if he spent his mealtimes at his father’s feet, he would learn better. I would allow him only to eat the proper foods out of my hand. And then I would allow him to wash them down with a drink from his king’s body, a high honour that he would happily open his pretty mouth for._

Drink _what_ out of that body, it doesn’t say, but there are only two possibilities, and Legolas is strangely fine with either. It seems so _filthy_ , and yet it only gets worse, and Legolas’ interest only rises.

_Or perhaps I would fill a glass before the meal with that very drink, so that I could watch my Legolas lick it clean. I am sure with a bit of training, he could have a very skilled tongue that he would willingly put to use in service of his father. There is a good deal of things I would like to see him lick repeatedly. But most of all, I would enjoy training him to be so fervent with his mouth that he would kneel and swipe his eager tongue along the bottom of my boot, just to demonstrate his devotion._

Legolas might already, if Thranduil asked him now, so entrenched in these fantasies as he’s shamefully become. The ideas are sick, yet fascinating. He can’t help but think of Thranduil’s mouth, and, to his delight, the book does the same.

 _I think I would like to lay him across my table. I would smear cream all along his perfect body, and I would lick wine from his fair skin. I am sure he would taste more sensuous than any brew I could obtain, though still I would allow the deluding of it, as I would have his taste alone so many other nights. On this one, I would dip a single cherry into my glass and drag it along my son’s luscious lips, so that I may feel the physical intoxication that he gives me. Would that I was so lucky as to lick wine from the perked buds upon his chest, and make my way down between his legs. I would have him scream for me and thread his fingers in my hair, and, perhaps, if he pleased me enough, I would drink his release in return for the many rounds I would have him swallow from me._

The journal tumbles out of Legolas’ hands. He feels so utterly immoral, because he’s become almost painfully hard. Though his dreams have gone where dreams may, he’s never allowed himself such debauched fantasies under the light of day. Yet his father seems to have no trouble fictionally defiling him. He tells himself he needs to put the book away, return it now, but even as one hand reaches for it, the other presses against his crotch. He can’t stop himself. He’s hot and wildly aroused like he’s never been, by the thought of his father’s complete domination of him. When he’d thought to find the root of their strain in these pages, he never thought it would be this.

Now he knows, and he can’t stop. He’s addicted. He lifts the book to a new passage, kneading himself through his tights as he does so. 

_I would have to teach him the art of it, but eventually my little leaf would learn to strip himself in a pleasing way. He would shed his clothes before my throne, and, perhaps, I would allow him to keep a trinket on here and there—in this case, his boots. Only then, with most of his body exposed to me, would I allow him to ascend the steps. I would draw him into my lap, and he would place his hands on my shoulders and ride me. At first, I am sure he would pretend it all me; that I was the one jilting him up and down like a child’s toy, but soon he would be lost in it, and he would bounce of his own accord. I expect he would shamelessly grind himself into me, throwing himself onto my girth over and over, all the while begging me to touch him, but I would only strokes his hips and go no lower. Perhaps I would toy with his chest, or even rearrange his hair. He would give me all he had, and I would milk him with only my thrusts, until he burst, uncontrolled and ashamed, and I continued to use him to my own end._

Legolas stops only to moan, his eyes closing and head tossing forward, picturing his own release in his father’s lap, atop the royal throne. He’s had that particular fantasy himself, but only in dreams that left him in a sweat. As soon as he can, he reads on, squeezing himself through the thin fabric.

_When finished with him, I would push Legolas to my feet. He would kneel there and rest his head in my lap, nuzzling into my knee and keening for my affection. I cannot imagine him not pleasing me whilst in my lap, so I believe I would pet him after, if only idly, my duties still at the forefront. But I would allow him to sit at my feet for the duration of them, until it came time to lead him to my bed._

Legolas is close, so close, and he flips the page so fast that he gives himself a quick, shallow paper cut. Shaking it, he instantly draws the finger into his mouth, tasting only a single drop of blood before his Elven skin begins to knit itself back together. It stings, but he’s too preoccupied to care. He returns to flip the page anyway, grateful that he hasn’t left any blood and therefore evidence of his shame. 

_I have toys, of course, to play with lesser elves, but it is my handsome son that I wish to see chained to my bed. If I were to catch him so, I should like to fit my collar around him and leash him in place, or perhaps tie his ankle as I would in the dungeon, affixed with a lock for which only I held the key. I would not allow him clothes, for he is too beautiful a thing to hide. I would, perhaps, loose the chain enough to allow certain amenities, but food he would only have at my hand and freedom at my whim. My son values this freedom, so I imagine he would beg me for it often, but I would not grant it lightly. He would come to know that he would only be allowed once he had drunk his fill of my release that morning, as well as having been thoroughly used. I would like to think that his body already craves my touch to some extent, but he does not know that restlessness is the guilt of freedom without its price._

_I would have him wake me with his mouth each morning, and I would use it until I had spilled down his throat. Then he would have to wait, naked and empty, for me to finish my morning routine and return to him, where I would throw him across my mattress and sheath myself in his tight rear._

_Only once I had spent myself in both of his orifices would I release his chains. He would seek that often, yet I cannot shake the feeling that certain days, he would simply lie wantonly across my sheets, spread his pretty legs and beg to be filled again, for he is incomplete when I am not inside him._

_Some days, I would treat him well for it, and kiss him tenderly, stroke his cheek and press slowly into his body. Others, I would clench my fist in his hair, wrench back his face and bite into his neck, leave bruises in his perfect flesh, and I would make him ache from my touch, until there were tears in his eyes from the force of my love. But always I would fill him, or at least paint him with it, and always he would know that he belongs in my bed. He would present himself to me whenever I were gone, so I returned to the sight of his invitation: my little brat begging to be claimed by his king._

The entry ends, and Legolas means to skip to the next page, but he’s shaking too hard, and he comes suddenly, spilling himself in his tights with a traitorous cry. He burns with shame, but it doesn’t stop him from palming himself and bucking forward, thinking of his father running greedy hands across his throat and scraping sharp teeth down his shoulder. It’s one of the most intense orgasms he’s ever had, and yet, when he finishes, he still feels strangely unsatisfied.

He knows exactly why. 

It’s not _enough_. He wants to keep the book, read every entry, but he can’t see any good in that if it’ll only leave him so horribly empty. It’s no substitute for the real thing. 

And it hits him, as he slowly comes down from his heady cloud, that he could have that real thing. His father _wants_ him. That’s become undeniable. He’s always wanted his father’s love, and thought his king unduly attractive, though he’s never been fool enough to say it aloud, and now he doesn’t know how he resisted so many years. A part of him is terrified at the prospect, but the rest _needs_ to speak to Thranduil. 

He carries the journal freely this time. There’s no need to hide it; it looks deceptively innocent, and now that Legolas knows what’s inside, there’s no chance Thranduil would risk making a scene over it if caught. He should clean himself off, but he finds he can’t wait, so he only changes his tights. It’s grown dark, and Thranduil will return to his quarters soon, where Legolas will have to catch him before sleep if not wait until tomorrow night, or broach such intimate matters before his throne. 

Legolas hurries, trying to be inconspicuous but aware he’s flushed and his quick change hides the stain but not the smell. By the time he reaches Thranduil’s quarters, he’s not sure if he’s relieved to find them empty. He searches all the attached rooms but has arrived early, and finally comes back to the bed, almost afraid to sit on it. This is where Thranduil dreams of _fucking_ him, and Legolas’ mind drifts to the last entry: himself presenting his body to his king. If he were as crudely bold as Thranduil seems to think him, he would strip and do so.

But he isn’t. He’s shaking again and hot beneath his collar. He perches on the end of the bed, the journal in his lap, and he stares at the door, having no idea what to say. 

Thranduil arrives too soon. When he opens the door, Legolas’ mind is still blank, dizzy. Thranduil greets, confusion clear in his grey eyes, “Legolas.” The doors click shut behind him. 

Legolas breathes, “Ada,” and it comes out as something of a moan. Thranduil glances down, face blanking at the sight of the journal. Legolas opens his mouth but has no words. 

Thranduil slowly comes closer. He’s unreadable, as he so often is. Then he slips his fingers beneath Legolas’ chin, tilting it up. He eyes Legolas’ parted lips and asks too casually, “Is this an offering for my tongue or a gag?”

Legolas’ cheeks turn pink, and he murmurs huskily, “Whatever my king wishes.” A smirk crosses Thranduil’s face. Trust him to be so conceited, and yet not wrong. 

He bends forward, but before he can brush their lips together, Legolas breaks. He lunges up, his arms encircling his father’s shoulders, his face smashing into Thranduil’s. He presses their mouths into one another, his own face tilting, the warmth and softness and _taste_ of Thranduil rushing into him. He’s dreamed of this many times but is still surprised at how _right_ it feels, and how wonderfully Thranduil melts into the kiss. It’s, perhaps, one of the most tender moments they’ve ever shared. 

When they part, Thranduil withdraws out of Legolas’ mewling reach. He half purrs, half chuckles, “My little brat, you have learned nothing.”

Then Legolas is pushed back onto the bed, excitedly waiting for his chains.


End file.
